


March 27th

by novel_concept26



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Office AU: Alison Hendrix does not understand the woman who works on the fifth floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	March 27th

Alison Hendrix does not understand the woman who works on the fifth floor. 

She thinks this is not wholly unnatural; there are many people working for this company, which seems to exist solely to pump out a boy's club of bankers, who remain incomprehensible. For example, there are the twin sisters working the mail room. One half of that duo is all ripped band shirts (the dress code is lax, sure, but she takes it to  _extremes_ ) and permanently-placed headphones. The other is a wild tangle of blonde knots and skittish, batty smiles. Headphones is constantly tossing Alison's packages right off the edge of her desk and winking; Shakira-Hair rarely turns up with a package at all, preferring instead to build small forts with them in the back corner of the mail room until Alison stomps down to collect her files in person. 

They do not make sense. Likewise, the data consultant on the sixth floor--the one who does not have her own office, but seems to live behind the steel and glass belonging to Ms. Cormier, her direct supervisor, instead--is illogical. She seems nice enough, and beyond intelligent, but her hair is bound up in rough dreadlocks, and her speakers pump rave music at all hours, and she has this  _smell_ about her that reminds Alison irresistibly of performing Godspell in college. And don't even get her  _started_ on the pencil skirts and bob haircut of the Escrow VP, whose steel eyebrow and clipping high heels make Alison feel like crawling out of her own skin. They are all, admittedly, very strange.

But no one is  _quite_ as strange as the woman who heads up the Client Relations platform on Five. Elizabeth Childs. Alison does not know what to do with Elizabeth Childs.

It's not that the woman is rude (like Headphones--Manning, Alison thinks her name is), or vaguely schizophrenic (Manning's sister), or an obvious stoner (Cosmos, or Cosi, or something along those lines; Alison keeps her distance, that old adage about  _you are who you hang with_  echoing between her ears). It's not that the woman is anything special  _at all_ , in fact. That, Alison thinks, is the problem.

Because she finds herself unable to stop thinking about Elizabeth Childs. 

And there really is no reason for that. 

Elizabeth Childs is neat. Her slacks are pressed, her button-downs rolled up to expose the inner curve of her elbows. She does not have tattoos, like Cosi-whatsits, or smudge her eyeliner, like Manning, or stride around in hell-heels, like Rachel Duncan. Her hair is straight. Her posture is steady. On the occasion she spots Alison in the hallway or a stairwell, she always smiles politely. 

She does not usually call down to Alison's sector, in Accounting, but when she does, there is a smile in her voice. She is pleasant. She is discreet. She does her job quickly and efficiently, and allows Alison to return to her own function as soon as possible. 

Alison finds she can't really look at the other woman. She forgets menial things in Elizabeth Childs' presence, things like placing her foot carefully on the next step, so as not to go tumbling down a whole flight. Things like how to multiply figures. Things like basic human interaction.

There is nothing special about Elizabeth Childs, except for whatever it is she manages to do to Alison's head on a daily basis. It's deeply unnerving. 

"The best solution," Felix Dawkins--who started off in the mail room, but recently began shadowing her function instead--tells her one day, "is to go up, grasp her by those pressed lapels, and just pin her to a wall--"

She's got a hand over his mouth before he can finish, her index finger held up in warning. He grins against her palm. 

"What is  _up_ with you?" Aynsley Norris demands in the kitchen a week later. "I swear, every time that woman asks you a question, you completely lose your head. Ali, we need to talk about--"

She doesn't put a hand over Aynsley's mouth, because Aynsley is exactly the sort of woman who would scream and cause an HR fiasco, but it's tempting. She settles for "accidentally" dropping Anysley's ID badge into the sink drain and slipping away while she is trying to recover it. 

As far as she can see, there  _is_ a decent solution to this whole thing, and it is to avoid Elizabeth Childs as much as humanly possible. Never mind that Childs smiles at her in the stairwell, or that her eyes sink deep into Alison's subconscious, pestering her dreams. Never mind any of that. Alison Hendrix is a grown woman, and grown women--grown  _accountants_ , thank you--do not succumb to the whims of childish...childish  _feelings_.

It's not as easy as it should be, to cut herself off from the woman, but she does her best. Her face remains stiff, regardless of Elizabeth's smile. Her words are kept short and neat. She knows it must look strange to the outside world, but so what? Everyone in this office is sort of bizarre. They have no right to comment on  _her_ social life choices. 

(When Sarah Manning arches a brow, plucking aside the left side of the big red headphones which cover her ears, and follows Elizabeth Childs' exit from a particularly uncomfortable tax question, Alison pretends to ignore her. When Sarah Manning says, a bit too cheerfully, "Hey, she's a hottie, yeah? You tappin' that?", Alison ratchets her ignorance up to _mail girls do not exist_ levels, until Sarah shrugs and slouches away.)

It's not as easy as it should be, to ignore Elizabeth Childs, but it is manageable. Until March 27th, that is. 

On March 27th, the elevator sticks. 

Alison truly does  _hate_ the elevators in this building. They are forever rumbling and twitching, jolting from side to side as if tethered by nothing stronger than a child's jump rope. They growl and hiss, skipping floors and popping doors open at unwelcome intervals. And, on rare occasions, they stop altogether, frozen by some evil wizard's spell, until the maintenance men are called to jimmy the controls loose again. Or however it is elevators work. 

She's never cared enough to Google it. She's never been so unlucky as to find herself trapped in the belly of a beached car. 

March 27th brings something new to the table--and it does so with only one other passenger.

"Oh dear," Alison hears herself say, somewhat faintly. "Oh. Oh dear  _lord_."

It is not the sort of cool, collected thing she would prefer to say in Elizabeth Childs' presence. Then again, with her recent decisions made--Elizabeth Childs does not exist,  _must_ not exist, if she insists upon making Alison feel such stupid things--she really would rather not say anything at all. This would be the ideal. 

Nothing about this is particularly  _ideal_ , though, least of all her company. Or the weight of her jacket, which suddenly feels unacceptably heavy in this warm car. Or...

"Oh, for _God's sake_."

Elizabeth Childs slides her a warm, slightly concerned look. "We'll be all right. This has happened to me before."

"Of course it has," Alison replies distractedly, not really listening. She is beginning to sweat, registering the compact nature of the elevator, registering its lack of air conditioning, of oxygen in general. She swallows hard, her throat a tight passage utterly lacking in moisture. Not good. Oh, nothing about this is good. 

"I'm going to be late," she croaks. Elizabeth Childs moves, as if to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder, and then seems to think better of it. 

"I'm sure they'll cut you some slack. This isn't your fault."

"Obviously." She brushes her bangs off her forehead, exhaling shakily. "Oh, this is just--"

"Shitty?" Elizabeth offers, and Alison is so taken aback, she actually  _laughs_ a little. From the corner of her eye, she sees the other woman slide down the wall to a sitting position, knees crooked up in front of her. Elizabeth pats the floor invitingly. "Take a seat. It's probably going to be a while."

Reluctantly, Alison sits. Though Elizabeth is as far away as she can get, arms bound around her knees, head leaned back against the wall, she feels entirely too close for comfort. There's no helping it, she supposes, but her skin prickles with gooseflesh all the same. 

 _There is nothing special about her_ , she thinks furiously, and of course, that is not entirely true. If it were, she would merely find the woman irritating, as she does Sarah Manning, or intimidating, like Rachel Duncan. If she were not special, Alison might not think of her at all. 

"You don't like me much, do you?"

She jumps. Elizabeth is looking over her shoulder, the question bearing a detached curiosity. Alison bites her lip, heart jerking in her chest. 

"I don't--"

"It's okay," Elizabeth says, still not looking at her. "I get it. I'm a little, uh--bad cop, sometimes. That's what Art says, anyway."

"Art?"

"My supervisor." She seems totally calm, as if the elevator were stationary, rather than swinging lazily from side to side with every motion made within its walls. "He says I'm sometimes too sharp. Racking people's balls, you know, when they've been stupid. I apologize if I've ever been sharp with you."

"You haven't," Alison says, too quickly. Then, feeling as though this requires an addendum: "I've always found you very...pleasant."

Elizabeth smiles faintly. "Thanks."

Alison nods. For a moment, they are silent, and Alison wonders if there is an alarm that rings out in maintenance when an elevator locks up this way, if there are already workers sliding down the Batpole to their aid. Probably not. At 8:57 on a Thursday morning, she can't imagine there are many people in at all. The maintenance crew seems to work an absurd schedule, utterly out of place with what is needed from them. Like everything else in this company, it is a boy's club constructed almost solely of scattered, narcissistic, rude--

"It's my birthday," Elizabeth Childs says suddenly, conversational as you please. Alison shoots her a surprised look. 

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, not today," the woman amends. Her eyes are closed, her head still tipped back, as if this might be nothing more stressful than a day at the beach. For a woman who spends all day being shouted at by disapproving clients, Alison supposes this  _does_ qualify as a more relaxing state of affairs. "It's the first."

"Your birthday," Alison repeats, "is April first?"

Elizabeth pops open one eye, her mouth twitching in a small grin. "No fooling."

"Mine's..." Oh, this won't do. This is a woman she's supposed to be  _forgetting_ about, not baring her Facebook profile to. But they could be in here for hours, and Elizabeth has such a pretty smile, it's hard to deny her. "Mine's the fourth."

"Yeah?" She sounds so interested. There is nothing put up about her, nothing that rings as fake as the smile Ms. Cormier sometimes gives when she's distracted, or as surly and antagonistic as Manning's lopsided grin. She sounds perfectly normal, perfectly...sweet. "We're practically twins, then."

She's grinning, but not like she's making fun of Alison. Not the way Felix does, even in his well-meaning, gentle way. Alison can't help smiling back, fingers steepled instinctively over her mouth. Elizabeth nods at her hand.

"Not married?"

"No." This is the part she dreads, the part where she discusses her messy divorce, her lying husband, her shambles of a love life. This is the part she wants no part of at all, which women like Rachel look down their noses at her for, and which women like Aynsley use against her whenever possible. But instead of prying, Elizabeth just shrugs. 

"Me either. Had a steady boyfriend a while, Paul, but...didn't work out."

She doesn't sound terribly broken up about it, but Alison senses this is careful brick-laying. There is something else there, some scar which Elizabeth Childs does not like looking at. She's tempted for a second to ask--but Elizabeth was kind to her, discreet, not a moment ago. The same courtesy ought to be granted here. 

"I'm sorry," is all she allows herself to say, and before she can stop herself, she's leaning across the elevator and touching Elizabeth's knee lightly. Surprised eyes jolt up to meet hers. The woman smiles. 

"Why don't you like me?"

"I  _do_ like you," Alison replies, a bit too forcefully. Elizabeth raises an eyebrow.

"Okay."

"I  _do_ ," Alison repeats. It's always so annoying when people condescend to her, when they behave as though her careful walk and polite manner make her stupid somehow. She doesn't believe that's  _really_ what Elizabeth Childs is doing now, but... "I  _do_ like you."

"Okay," Elizabeth says again, and before Alison can draw away, covers that traitor hand with her own. Her skin is soft, recently moisturized, but there are callouses on the tips of her fingers. Alison breathes in through her nose. 

"You--do you play guitar?"

It's a stupid thing to say, but Donnie tried to pick up the instrument for a while, and she remembers how rough his hands had been for that period. Rough and ungainly, galumphing across her skin the only way Donnie knew how. 

She can't imagine Elizabeth  _galumphing_ anywhere. 

"No guitar. Not really musically inclined." She is not taking her hand away. Her thumb strokes once across Alison's knuckles, almost too absent to be noted. "I like to work out, though. And the gun range."

"Guns," Alison repeats stiffly. Elizabeth laughs. It is a gentle sound, surprisingly bubbly for a woman of her posture. 

"Not for shooting  _people_. Just paper targets. Really gets the frustrations of the week out, you know?"

She doesn't, but she nods anyway. It's getting hard to think in here; too warm, and too enclosed, and Elizabeth's knee is hot beneath her hand. 

"Sometimes I need it," Elizabeth goes on, sounding unexpectedly tired. "Sometimes, it's just...stressful. You get that."

Not a question. It's the honest truth. Alison gives her knee a brave little squeeze, her stomach flopping backward when Elizabeth smiles again. 

"You should come sometime. I can show you how it--I mean, I think it'd be nice. To go with a friend."

Such an off-hand thing to say, and from anyone else's mouth, it might sound dumb, or even naive. But Elizabeth is just smiling that light, careless smile, and though her eyes are dark with the weight of something Alison is unprepared to stretch out toward, she  _does_ like that smile. Perhaps too much. 

"And if we're going to be friends," the woman goes on, when the moment stretches too long to be anything but awkward, "you really should call me Beth."

"Beth," Alison repeats, tasting each letter on the springboard of her tongue. "Beth. You don't seem like a Beth."

" _You_ don't seem like an Alison," Beth swings back, amused. "No one  _seems_ like anything. You just  _are_."

Alison laughs at this, because her stomach is starting to cramp with nerves, and because they are still stuck in this little car, and because Beth is still holding her hand in a firm, almost intimate grasp. 

Too intimate for a woman who has been finding herself nearly ignored for the past week or two. Too intimate for what Alison deserves. Suddenly, she is ashamed of herself. Beth is kind, and sweet, and perfectly lovely. Beth has never been anything  _but_ those things in her presence. Even believing Alison might dislike her, she has been wonderful, and grounding, and--

"I'm sorry."

Beth squeezes her hand reflexively. Has she scooted closer, Alison wonders, or is that just the shrinking nature of this elevator playing games with her head? She  _seems_ closer. 

"I didn't mean to--I mean, I know I was rude, but--"

 _But I'm attracted to you_ , she lets herself think for the first time, and the idea is so earth-shattering, she nearly bows her head against her knees and weeps.  _God help me, I am so attracted to you, and you are a woman, and I am a failure, and--_

"No worries," Beth says, patient and smiling. Alison shakes her head hard, nearly unbinding the careful bun she's swept her hair up in today. 

"No, I was very...I wish I could explain."

"Nope," Beth answers, and when Alison opens her mouth, adds, " _Hey_. We're cool. You didn't owe me anything then, and you still don't."

Another strange thing to say, and yet, the unnatural intimacy feels perfectly all right. Elevator magic, she supposes, or perhaps Beth magic. Either way, it speeds the thrum of her heart to a stallion's gallop. 

"But," Beth says, eyes bright, "if you  _did_ want to owe me something, that trip to the gun range is always open. Or lunch. I never say no to lunch."

Alison is still giggling when the elevator jerks horribly once, and then, surprisingly, begins to climb. Its pace is slow and jagged, and Beth releases her hand at last, pressing both palms into her knees. 

"Saved by the--well, whatever. You need a hand?"

She lets the other woman pull her to her feet, relishing the slide of Beth's palm clasped against her own even as guilt floods her stomach. When the doors open at last at the fifth floor, there is a man on the other side, his face drawn and slightly irritated. 

"Damn thing. Third time this week."

"No harm done," Beth informs him breezily, stepping out and glancing back. Alison has one hand blocking the doors from closing, her mouth a tight line of lip gloss and swallowed emotions. "You going to risk the rest of the way?"

"It's just two floors," Alison says, somewhat stupidly. Beth grins. 

"Good luck. Oh, and Alison?"

It's the first time she's said her name, Alison realizes with a shudder of strange delight. The first time she's said it like  _that_ , anyway, like a promise rather than a calling card. "Yes?"

Beth holds up two fingers. "Saturday? Two o'clock? I can pick you up."

"I don't--I've never--"

"I'm a good teacher," Beth says. It's not cocky, or childish, the way she says it. The way she says it, Alison believes her. Believes she could be anything she wants, say anything she wants, and Alison would nod right along with her. 

There  _is_ something special about Beth Childs, she decides as the doors  _snik_ shut and the elevator begins its monstrous climb heavenward again. There is something very special about Beth Childs. Maddening, yes, probably. But who here isn't?

Alison doesn't understand her in the least, but she has a sneaking suspicion she's about to learn. 

She's still wearing a tiny, shit-eating sort of grin when she reaches her desk.


End file.
